


Violence

by OkayAristotle



Series: Compatible Differences [1]
Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Blood, Choking, Dom/sub, Kink Meme, Light Sadism, Love Bites, M/M, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Top Clark Kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle
Summary: For the dckinkmeme prompt: "Clark wrecking Slade in that perfect way Slade never can quite get from anyone else. Can include: Slade being marked up in deep tissue bruising, Slade getting tossed around, Slade snarking the entire time while Clark indulges him."
Relationships: Clark Kent/Slade Wilson
Series: Compatible Differences [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766782
Comments: 26
Kudos: 122





	Violence

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this to get me out of a slump, next thing I know it's 9k. Huh. Rough, unedited. The usual.

The first time it happens, it's an accident. Slade doesn't make those often, so he cuts himself some slack for just dangling like a kitten caught by its scruff. World's greatest assassin, his ass.  
  
Superman fixes him with a stare that's so disappointed, he can only shrug.  
  
"Deathstroke." He states. The word is almost spat, except they're two inches from each other, floating a few dozen feet above the rooftop he'd been plucked from.  
  
"The one and only." Slade _doesn't_ grin, but it's a near thing. He kind of likes Metropolis. Being dangled a dozen floors off the ground is a novel experience.  
  
Somewhere below, his window closes and Slade mentally prepares a new, much smoother plan to slit Marc Salvatori's throat in his penthouse, rather than the quick headshot he'd planned.  
  
"What are you doing in Metropolis?" Superman asks, his head tilting a fraction. His eyes glow a cold blue, that endlessly fascinating _x-ray vision_ that Slade's heard so much about.  
  
He smirks beneath the mask. "See something you like?" The hand holding him by his bandoliers shakes him a little. "I was sightseeing, if you must know."  
  
"With a rifle."  
  
"All the better to see with." Slade murmurs. Superman sighs. "As of yet, I haven't committed any crimes."  
  
"Planning to commit a crime is still a crime."  
  
Slade snorts. "Even Bats doesn't chase me on _that."_ After a second's thought, Slade reaches around, quicker than most could anticipate, prepared to slice the bandolier and run.  
  
Not that running would do much good.  
  
He kind of hates Metropolis, too.  
  
Superman's hand catches his, the bare skin warm even through Slade's gloves. He squeezes, a carefully calculated amount to have Slade's hand spasm and drop the combat knife. It's a very novel feeling; being helpless.  
  
"Are we staying up here all night?" Slade drawls. Superman's eyes flick over his mask for a long, tense moment. If it weren't for his enhanced senses, being set down and stripped of all weapons would be a blur. As it is, he watches the moments Superman struggles to unlock the various latches of his uniform with amusement, freeing the firearms and blades.  
  
"You're lucky there's a house fire two blocks away." Superman states, a good ten feet away and still cradling half of Slade's gear. That'll be a bitch to replace. Not to mention his _sword._ "Get out of Metropolis."  
  
"Unlikely." Slade tips his head. "Better go save that poor apartment complex."  
  
"I'm saving the people," Superman sighs, "not the building."  
  
"Bye-bye." He waves with two fingers, and can't help a smile, his hand still aching. That's _new._

* * *

The second time is the opposite of an accident. It's a finely tuned, well orchestrated _event._  
  
Slade takes a page from their last meeting and sets a mid-sized fire going in an abandoned warehouse on the docks. He doesn't know Metropolis as well as Gotham, but it doesn't take a genius to know how to get Superman's attention.  
  
The daylight is new, he's got to admit. Vigilantes have a _thing_ about nightfall that the alien obviously doesn't subscribe to. It makes it that much easier to become noticed, a two-story warehouse beginning to smoke in Metropolis' perpetual sunshine.  
  
There's nobody around to endanger, save for Slade, and therefore no chance to have his skull crushed into the dirt just yet. The goal is to retrieve his sword, not get put in a hole.  
  
He douses the entryway in a little more gasoline, not quite starting to sweat beneath his kevlar, and watches his work. It's a fucking masterpiece of a fire, if he's being honest. Not eating the warehouse too fast, a slow-burning heat that'll smoke more than destroy.  
  
Twenty minutes pass before there's the telltale whoosh of air, Slade not bothering to look up. He'd rather not give him the satisfaction.  
  
"Wilson." Superman greets, if he can call it that. Sounds more like a curse.  
  
"I need my stuff back." He sends back.  
  
Rather infuriatingly, his fire is put out with one well-timed and icey breath. If he had those kinds of powers, he sure as Hell wouldn't be wearing little red underpants. Slade sighs, tightening the fastenings of his mask, and rises to his full height.  
  
"You can hand them back now," he starts, "or I can become suitably motivated to find myself some Kryptonite."  
  
The little break from work had been nice. Marc Salvatori hadn't enjoyed Slade's last resort, an old-fashioned strangling. He'd rather avoid that kind of mess in the future. Clean, quick kills were best. He had a reputation.  
  
But its getting tired, and he'd like his sword back.  
  
"Wouldn't be the first to try." Superman hums. He's shorter than Slade, which is kind of surprising. But maybe not, Slade's the one that's been tweaked by the military. When he meets Superman's eyes, they're a little amused, crinkled at the corners. "What makes you think I'll hand you back your weapons?"  
  
"Uh, because I asked." He thumbs the one handgun he's got left, a spare he'd left behind in the car. It'd be a shame to have that taken too. "And because if you don't, I'll set this fucking city on fire."  
  
"Threats really aren't going to work." Superman murmurs. "I can't in good conscience give you weapons of mass destruction."  
  
"I am a weapon of mass destruction." Slade throws his hands up slightly, a little amazed they're still here. If it was Bats, they'd be tussling on the floor by now, for fucks sake. "And if you think that's going to stop me, you're dead wrong. You're just making it more…" Slade grins, knows Superman can see it, "... painful."  
  
"I really should take you in." He mutters. His eyes flicker, back to the warehouse. Then, to Slade's hand. "You'd just break out again. Kill good, hard-working cops."  
  
"You know it." Slade smiles. It's obvious it bothers him, the smile, and the steady beat of Slade's heart. He's not scared — couldn't be further from it. "So be a good boy, and go get my weapons."  
  
Superman looks away again, his mouth twisting. "If I do," he says, "you stay out of Metropolis?"  
  
"Scout's honor." Slade replies.  
  
"You come back here, and you won't like what I'll do to you." Superman grinds his teeth, almost audibly. Not happy in the slightest. The words are like an electric shock, echoed in Slade's ears much, much darker.  
  
His mouth twitches. "Alright."  
  
It takes two minutes and thirty seconds for Slads's gear to be unceremoniously dumped at his feet, and he kind of feels like kissing each item. Strapping the sword to his back again, Deathstroke a heavy weight on his shoulders, it feels _good._  
  
Almost as good as the glare Superman gives him, such a deadly stare for such a good man, a spark of red in his eyes.

* * *

In Slade's defense, he hadn't _planned_ to come back to Metropolis. Really, it was a last minute thing. Luthor on another one of his something-or-other rants, an overreaction about a scathing article and next thing he knows, Slade's being promised two private islands and three million for a reporter's head.  
  
How any man could turn that down, Slade has no clue.  
  
The name doesn't ring any bells, which only makes Luthor that much more feral. He's practically foaming at the teeth by the time Slade's hung up. Clark J. Kent. Some nobody.  
  
Regular guy, sentenced to die for the crime of putting a few words in a newspaper. Barely worth his time. But three million was three million. And private islands were hard to come by, in this economy.  
  
Life was tough. Luthor was a moron, for such a genius. And Clark Kent was dead by midnight.  
  
All in a day's work.  
  
Rather than favor the kevlar, Slade brings the Ikon suit, just in case. It had been stupid not to bring it last time. He was going senile if he didn't bring it _this_ time, even if Superman's threat had been the most remarkable thing he'd heard all week.  
  
Kent's apartment is nothing of the sort. Red bricks, like all the other red bricks. Quiet neighbourhood, not much movement on the street. East facing window, making it the darkest come night, perfect for Slade to scale.  
  
There's little roses printed on the curtains that rustle when he slips in, grateful that the window didn't squeak. Not that Kent would be able to do much more than cower under the bed and wait for death. But, still, it's the principle. He'd like tonight to go smoothly, no Superman necessary.  
  
Inside is unremarkable as well. There's a framed photograph on his bedside, an aging couple in a cornfield. Cute. Two framed front pages, one of which is Superman's debut, much to Slade's annoyance. Socks on the floor and tomorrow's work clothes laid out on a chair.  
  
And Kent.  
  
He's asleep, alright. A pillow hugger, it seems. Not much to notice besides dark curls peeking up over a thick comforter, one of Kent's feet hanging from the edge of the bed. Snoring quietly, safe in his bed.  
  
Slade leaves him to it, edging the bedroom door open. The hall's dark, but Kent's forgotten a lamp on somewhere. The first two doors are storage, knick-knacks and cast-offs. The usual shit. Slade's seen it all before, and he still doesn't _get_ why Kent's the target.  
  
Luthor never shuts up about him.  
  
He'd kind of expected someone who didn't use tea-cosies and keep old high school track trophies. Slade discards the set of oven-mitts in the closet and moves on, finding the bathroom next. The bathtub is fucking _tiny._ He almost feels bad, Kent had seemed tall.  
  
When he'd first started working this way, he'd felt _weird._ Like an intruder. Not wrong, he'd never felt wrong doing this; everything felt _right_ like this. Every step was instinctual, and the work was second-nature.  
  
But he'd felt strange, rifling through strangers belongings, tracing his fingers over photographs and standing over their children's beds. By now, it's habit. Ritual.  
  
Finding out what makes Kent the man who needs to die — it's professional curiosity.  
  
Unfortunately, there's not much to find. Cheap beer in the fridge, a box of poptarts left on top of the microwave. A couch with Kent's ass-print left in it, and a laptop shoved under the coffee table. A fish tank that gurgles when he taps the glass, startling the betas. He flicks off the forgotten lamp before heading back to the bedroom, Kent having switched positions.  
  
Flat-out on his back and snoring even louder. One arm still hugs the pillow. It's kind of amusing. Slade watches him for a moment longer, taking note of the tension to his face even in sleep; people tend to do that. Even unconsciously, they know something's wrong. They know there's someone standing over their bed with a Sauer pointed at their skull.  
  
Slade clicks the safety off, takes aim, and nearly shoots off prematurely at the voice.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you." Kent mumbles. Sleep in his voice, he doesn't even crack an eye open. Slade squeezes the trigger. "Like, seriously."  
  
"Begging won't help."  
  
"I'm too tired to beg." Kent sighs. "You think you're the first one Luthor's sent? This week?"  
  
"I don't fail a contract."  
  
"I'm sure." He hums non-committaly. What the fuck. "If I were you, I'd climb right back out that window. And switch the lamp on before you go, I leave it like that for the fish."  
  
"What on Earth makes you think I'm going to do that?"  
  
"Um, because I asked." Kent mumbles, rather resigned. He almost laughs, faced with his own words for once. He doesn't, though, because Kent cracks an eye open and its that same cold, blue stare. _Huh._ "And I told you what would happen next time."  
  
Slade pulls the trigger. The bullet doesn't even _bounce,_ just crushes into itself, and Kent plucks it off the center of his face with a sniff.  
  
"Luthor's dead." He hisses. That motherfucker.  
  
"Luthor doesn't know." Kent mutters. "I'd rather keep it that way." Blinking both eyes open, he shuffles, propping himself up in bed. One hand's still wrapped around his pillow, his hair fluffed up, but _fuck—_  
  
Slade's an idiot, and so is the rest of the world. His eyes catch the stupid, wide-rimmed glasses on the nightstand.  
  
"But you'd tell me?" He scoffs. Unbelievable.  
  
Either his luck has changed for the better, or he's about to get a taste for the stratosphere.  
  
"Or, what, fight off Deathstroke The Terminator with my bare hands?" Kent rubs his face. "Yeah, you'd leave it at that. Wouldn't question that at all. Or I could try and prepare to fake my death, somehow, while you were bothering my fish."  
  
Slade tips the gun. "Sounds like a real pickle."  
  
Kent fixes him with a withering stare. "Not if you're in prison."  
  
"We had that conversation, remember? Dead cops?" Slade leans in, close enough to tap the barrel of the gun against Superman's invulnerable chin. "And being in prison doesn't mean I'm _mute._ I can still get the cat out of the bag in handcuffs."  
  
Kent goes quiet at that, probably wondering if it's worth it (which it _isn't,_ Luthor would get him _three_ private islands for that kind of information) before he shakes his head, mindless of the gun pointed at his throat. "What—" he swallows. "What do you want?"  
  
Ah. Good. Slade withdraws, tapping the gun against his own chin this time. "You can't afford my silence," he hums, looking around the room. "That much is obvious."  
  
"Just tell me."  
  
Rather than answer, Slade wanders over to the lightswitch, flicking it on. Kent squirms in his bed, the comforter pushed down to show off a very garish pair of boxers and overly-loved sleepshirt, _Kansas Jayhawks._ It's all very homely, for an alien.  
  
"Slade."  
  
"Oh, we're on first-name basis?" Slade snorts. Very few people are. His kids, Wintergreen. End of list. "Well, _Clark,"_ he flexes his hand, all healed up by now. It had felt as good as new within hours. "You're rather special."  
  
Kent hums, a disgruntled sound.  
  
"Or should I say, I am." Slade touches the framed newspaper article. It's kind of dick-ish, now that he thinks about it. Superman's nothing but a blurry red cape in the photograph, the article singing his praises. "Very few people can hurt me, let alone injure me." He taps the glass thoughtfully. "Even fewer live after that."  
  
"Your point."  
  
"My point," Slade chews his tongue, taking his time in returning to face Kent, enjoying the stiffness to his shoulders. "Is you're one of the few people who _can,_ and you _will."_  
  
Only once the words are out does he realise how much he means them. Feeling something new is, well, _new._ He's been hurt before. Been beaten bloody, and felt the worst the world has to offer. But not like that, not like it was nothing.  
  
Not like Slade was nothing. Fragile and human, even with his armour, even with his enhancements. Hurting Slade takes _work,_ and Superman did it like it was nothing.  
  
That's new.  
  
Kent's mouth moves silently, little half-syllables making their way out before he stops entirely. Both eyebrows scrunch together, confused. "You want me to hurt you?"  
  
"Do you want to keep this little secret between us?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"Then be quiet, stop asking questions." Slade holsters the firearm, and unstraps the gloves to the Ikon suit. "And _hurt me."_ He growls.  
  
"What—" Kent snaps his mouth shut at Slade's move forward, eyeing his hand like it'll bite. For an invulnerable alien, he's kind of skittish. Strange.  
  
"Squeeze it. Like before." He orders, holding his hand out. There's scars over scars on his knuckles, and thick calluses on his palm when Slade turns his hand over in offering. Kent continues to stare, his blue eyes still sleepy.  
  
"Like—" Kent grits his teeth. The first touch is almost too fast to make out, but fuck does Slade feel it. Superman runs hot, and without the gloves in the way he can feel every degree, almost a shock to his system. They stay like that long enough he's about to call it holding hands, and then Clark tightens his grip.  
  
It's nothing but pressure, at first. It doesn't hurt. There's no electric, no surprise. And then he feels it, an ache in his palm. Clark's fingers dig in, each a heavy weight, each capable of tearing through skin and muscle and bone.  
  
Slade barely breathes when it turns to true pain, the bones all but grinding together. He keeps his eyes trained on their joined fingers, every sense put toward experiencing the novelty of Superman's touch. It hurts almost to the point of nausea, real intent to damage behind Kent's grip, the circulation of Slade's fingers cut off and numbing quickly.  
  
And then it's _gone._  
  
Slade nearly shoots him right then and there, just to make a point.  
  
"There." Kent mutters. "Are we done?"  
  
Slade's expression twitches beneath the mask, not quite annoyed. It takes guts to be as mouthy as Kent is right now. He flexes his hand, each finger slow to respond.  
  
"We're done." He murmurs. Kent sighs deeply, even more so when Slade grins under his mask. "You have a good night now."  
  
"Fuck you." Clark mumbles, focused on Slade as he slips back out the window and takes the express freefall back to pavement. It doesn't even ache.  
  
He'll figure out something to tell Luthor in the morning. It was never a signed and sealed contract, anyway. More like a favour. Plenty more islands in the sea, as they say.  
  
And If Slade stops off at his Gotham safehouse and jerks off until his damaged hand cramps and his vision turns white, that's his own fucking business.

* * *

Luthor's pissed, of course. That in itself almost makes it worth it — Luthor always turns almost purple with fury, and it's fucking  _ fantastic. _ Not to mention, Slade leaves for the Caribbean with a new contract not a week later, with the smug satisfaction of knowing something Lex doesn't. 

It's a secret that would fetch him a lot of money. Set him for life, really. It would ruin Superman. Possibly the most valuable thing he knows, besides how to pull a trigger. And as with all good secrets, its best not to spill them the first chance he gets. 

So he keeps it quiet, and he works his way through a half-assed militia in the Nicaraguan heat, and feels awfully amused knowing  _ Clark _ is probably at home, sweating in his little red briefs. 

Stateside is just as run-of-the-mill. He spends a month in North Carolina, and then two weeks playing bodyguard over the border to Mexico, and then it's a string of small-time assassinations, on and on. He stays out of Bats way. He keeps out of Metropolis. He plays by the rules, as much as he's able, because despite popular belief — Slade doesn't enjoy being tailed by capes. 

Actually, it's his least favourite thing, beside run-ins with Adeline. Batman's almost as annoying as his ex wife, and that's just a sad fact of Slade's life. He keeps busy, makes money, and doesn't stop until he's six beers deep in a restless pity party on the outskirts of Houston. 

It's not that he's  _ bored. _ It's just he's tired of the same old shit. 

Unfortunate side-effect of enhancements. Nothing holds his interest like the work does, but even that's a mind-numbing sometimes. So easy to slip into autopilot, when bullets are nothing more than an inconvenience and Slade's bruises heal before he has time to even feel them. He'd pay good fucking money for something interesting. 

Instead, Slade drinks a little more, and falls asleep on a pull-out couch with late night re-runs on mute. 

* * *

Nobody could blame Slade, of course, for finding his way to Metropolis again. The first time had been an accident, the second an orchestrated event, and the  _ third—  _

The third is sheer boredom. 

The third is a last ditch attempt not to turn into some drooling lackey, taking money wherever it's due to be found, working on autopilot for the rest of his life. The third is sneaking into Clark J. Kent's apartment and flicking off his lamp just because he can, and grinning a mile wide at the disgruntled noise from the bedroom. 

His ears pick up the sound of thumping, Clark no doubt tangled in his sheets, and then the door that squeals when it's wrenched open. Slade flops into Clark's favoured spot on his couch, a very comfortable spot indeed, and waits. 

He doesn't need to wait too long, the hall light flicking on and the sound of bare feet on hardwood. As much as Slade hates it, it's not a bad apartment. Good for a pencil pusher salary. Wooden floors and lots of windows. Nice high ceilings and even a little kitchen island, two mismatched chairs taking up all the space. 

"What are you doing here?" Clark snaps, once he's made his great entrance in navy boxers and not much else. There's one sock on his foot. Under the mask, Slade raises an eyebrow. 

"Hello to you, too." 

"Slade." He sighs. He takes in the weapons, and the dirt from Slade's boots on the coffee table, and the lamp. Clark shakes his head, and then he's beside the lamp, quicker than even Slade could see, flicking it back on. "Stop scaring my fish. Actually — get out of my apartment." 

"You sure you want to start like this?" Slade murmurs, tilting his head. He'd worn the Ikon suit again, despite his unconventional intentions. He wasn't entirely stupid. "And here I thought we were getting friendly, Clark." 

"Dont—" He grit his teeth. "Don't call me that."

Rather than reply, Slade leans forward, setting his twin katana on the table. Then, the Sauer that they'd both become acquainted with, and the M9, and the serrated hunting knife, the three flash-bangs and emergency grenade, and the bandolier full of ammunition, on and on until the table is full. None of it would help against Superman, anyway. Nothing but the suit. 

Clark watches the whole thing unfold with increasingly pinched edges, blue eyes flicking between Slade's blank mask and his fingers as they work on each strap and holster. 

"What are you doing." He finally mutters. "What is this?" 

"What does it look like?" Slade toes the M9, settling it back on the pile. "I'm making a deal. Step one: disarm and de-escalate." He tilts his head. "I can put it all back on, if you'd like." 

"Whatever game this is, I'm not playing." 

"Please. I'm not  _ Luthor. _ " He snorts. The quickest route to what he wants is always a straight line, regardless of what's in his way. "Last I checked, I still knew something he'd like to know, so why don't you take a seat, and hear what I have to say." Probably the most reasonable he's been all month, and Superman has the guts to look annoyed at that, folding all his bulk into one small armchair. 

And what a bulk it is, now that Slade's looking. 

"Fine." Clark sighs. He combs through his hair with broad hands, fixing it into some semblance of his usual masterpiece. "Talk." 

"Thank you." He murmurs, fighting a smile. Boy does it feel good, having  _ Superman _ do what he says, even if it is under duress. A little blackmail never hurt anybody. "As memorable as last time was, I'd like more. And you're going to give me that, unless you want to lose all those… nice human things. Your job. Family. Friends." He hums. "Fish." 

Clark stares back at him for a long second, then looks to the fish. He laughs, quietly, a flash of teeth. "You broke back into my apartment to ask me to  _ hurt you?"  _

"Sure," Slade shifts further into the couch, the picture of comfort. "Not every day I find someone who can do it." 

Kent nods, slow like molasses, his eyes a little unfocused as he studies the fish. Then, almost amused, "You're a masochist." 

_ "No."  _ Slade rolls his one good eye. "Call me curious. Interested in my limits." Clark shifts at that, a little crease in his brow. "Not that it matters what I'm getting out of this. You know how many people would give up the chance to lay it on me?" He lets the words sink in, biting his tongue a little. "Or how about how many I've killed, murdered in their beds like I was going to do to you? Innocents. Good people. For nothing more than money." He murmurs, a flicker of excitement in his ribcage when Clark's expression shifts, a hardened edge at his jaw. 

"Stop it." 

"I've done worse than you can imagine." Slade says, voice low. "And you're going to give up the chance to make me pay for it? I expected better of you,  _ Superman." _

"If you're trying to piss me off—" 

"I am trying," Slade cuts in, leaning forward. Through the mask, he holds Clark's gaze, notes the undercurrent of red. "To make a deal. You keep up your end, and I won't say a word. My motivations are my own." 

"You want me to, what, hit you?" 

"Whatever gets your rocks off." Slade replies, feeling his own heartbeat pick up a little. He's not said yes, but he doesn't need to. The clenched fists at Clark's thighs speak enough. "Nothing that gets in the way of my work, and nothing permanent." He taps his mask. "I kind of need my good eye." 

A flicker of disgust flits over Clark's face, quickly replaced by determination. "Alright," he nods, running a hand through his hair again. He rises, faltering for a moment before stepping around the coffee table. "How… how are we doing this?" 

"I'll give you the first one for free." He smiles, all teeth. "After that, you'll have to work for it." 

Clark shakes his head. "Unlikely." Without much further warning, he punches, his fist cracking into the side of Slade's head with enough force that he can  _ hear _ it. And then there's the following crash, Clark's shoulders buried in his living room wall with a slightly dazed expression. 

Slade laughs. 

"Asshole." 

"Did you really forget I had this little old thing on?" He waves to the Ikon suit, the right side of the mask no doubt still pulsing with energy. Slade pushes off the couch with ease, stalking closer until Clark gets with the program and exits his plaster wall, flakes of paint drifting to the floor. He cuts a good figure, strong shoulders thrown back and every muscle tight and tense, such anger in his eyes. Mentally, Slade makes a list of all his buttons, and adds  _ played for a fool _ to the top. 

"You're going to regret that." He snaps, voice low like he's playing at Batman for once. Slade's heart picks up at that alone, and doesn't waste any time in making for the bedroom. He'd rather not hear the whining, if they break Kent's fish tank. 

He's quick when he wants to be, and damn near silent in the suit. Makes it all the way to the bedroom doorway, has the time to see Kent's ruffled sheets and a discarded book on the floor as he's knocked down.  _ Hard. _ The hand at his scruff is somehow both gentle and forceful; it doesn't hurt, but it sure knocks him for six. Slade's senses zero in on that, those heavy fingers digging into his vertebrae and the puff of warm air that follows over his vulnerable neck, effectively neutralized. 

Thankfully, he wasn't born yesterday. A second is all Kent gets and then he's receiving an elbow to his toned abdomen, Slade's fingers sure and strong with the help of the Ikon suit in grabbing his shoulder, prying at the muscle there until they're flipped. 

"Nice try," Slade murmurs, distinctly aware that his blood is pumping hot for once, the breathlessness real. He settles on Kent's trimmed waist, distinctly aware they're both hard. His hands find miles of unblemished skin, soft and with a human-like give, a muscle on the left side of his chest twitching when Kent glares. 

Kent huffs in harshly, his jaw set like a steel beam. "Unfair advantage." He shoots back. Gives the Ikon suit a withering glare like it's personally offended him. Probably has. Unlikely he comes across stuff like this too often. Things that can stop him. The feeling is mutual.

"Oh, you think?" He reaches out, touches the edge of Clark's jaw like it's breakable. "Get it off me then." Clark flinches at the light tap to his jaw, but doesn't fight when Slade reaches out, his hand a light pressure around his throat. 

No chance he'd get away with the real thing. But it's nice to imagine. 

Quicker than he can catch, Clark's hand raises in a mirror image to close around his windpipe. The suit bends under the touch, but doesn't quite repel it. Slade grins, a real touch of excitement now, because now he can see it — the  _ anger _ , the determination, and the thought that all it would take is a momentary lapse of control. 

Just a little. Just a twitch. Slade would be gone before he had time to realise it. One less criminal on the loose.

Clark blinks, irises turned scarlet, and then fumbles the ties at the back of the hood. Slade lets him get on with it, and enjoys the cool change of air when it's pulled free, his hair not even sweat damp yet. It takes a little more than a tussle to get that out of him, but a grin spreads over his mouth anyway, letting Clark take his fill with calculating eyes. 

The eye catches him off-guard, surprisingly. Anybody who knows Deathstroke (and he  _ does _ know) knows about the eye. Kent stares at the patch like its foreign, the fire dying in his own eyes dying for a moment. 

"Well?" Slade asks, tilting his head. He squeezes Clark's throat for good measure, drawing his attention. His thumb brushes under a clean-shaven jaw, tracing the sharp edge that most men wish they had. He's not bad himself, of course, Clark's eyes flitting across the faint, healed scars and the scratch of stubble across his cheeks, white strands of hair fallen over his forehead. "Can we get on with this?" 

His vision whites out. Slade grunts, the roof of his mouth aching, the skin of his cheekbone stinging.  _ Fucker.  _ Clark stares at his own hand like it's a foreign entity, working of its own accord. 

"Good," he grits out, "more." He holds Clark's gaze when he can focus beyond the new sensation, the confusion of a slap straight from Superman's hand, and then pushes off none too kindly. The bedroom's only a few paces away, and Slade crosses the threshold with a sigh, rubbing at the sore spot. 

Might even bruise. Ain't that a thought. 

Kent's bed is an inviting prospect right around now, and Clark helps him along with another hand to his neck, guiding him like a wayward dog. Pushes him down  _ hard _ , and fights back when Slade makes to elbow him again. The suit's good, but it's not quite  _ Superman _ good, especially right now. 

It can repel just fine, but when it comes to hitting back? Not quite so good. 

Slade growls when a thigh is forced between his own, kicking his knees apart at a painful angle. Clark bears down, sets the weight of his chest right on Slade's shoulders until his collarbones protest, a groan muffled by the sheets. 

"Listen," Clark says, practically  _ pants. _ His mouth is right beside Slade's ear, uncomfortably close, and this stimulated — its too fucking loud, Goddamn  _ enhancements _ , hurts when he presses in further. "Tell me how to get this off you, I'm not playing games, Slade." A hint of steel makes its way into his voice, a glinting knife edge in his words. 

He debates, only for a second, spitting out a curse and breaking Kent's bedside lamp over his head. Now  _ that _ would piss him off. But he's not a brat, and he has things he wants. Things currently on top of him, offering to rip Slade's clothes off. 

"There's a release." He murmurs into the sheets. Shuts his good eye and smiles. "Back of the neck. Left elbow. Right side, inner thigh." Kent leans down, somehow even further. He's pretty sure the bed's about to break, wooden slats creaking in protest. "Go on. It won't explode." 

"Better not." Clark murmurs. At first, he doesn't even do anything, just presses his mouth to the collar of Slade's suit. Then his hand begins searching, finding the thin button at the base of his neck. Then, he reaches under, drags Slade's arm out from where it's been crushed. 

The contact isn't gentle this time, a harsh yank that makes his joints protest. Kent hits the release there too, and then bends his arm up against his spine, holds it there, the angle a sharp lance through his shoulder. 

"Don't move." Clark mutters, waiting a beat before he lets go. Slade does as he's told, for once, holding the god-awful position with as much dignity as he's able.  _ See, Adeline, he can play nice.  _ A heavy warmth settles over the backs of his thighs, Kent pinning him, Slade painfully aware of the sight he makes; legs spread in a skin-tight suit, and he's just glad he's face down, doesn't have the embarrassment of watching Clark watch him. 

The first touch is feather light, explorative over the sensitive inside of his thigh. A palm, then fingers splayed wide and almost possessive as Clark maps him out, trailing up and up— Slade grunts when he finds the button, hidden in what would be the crease of his thigh if he wasn't splayed out like an offering, tantalisingly close to where he wants touched most.

"Really, Slade?" 

"You know how many people get that up close and personal with Deathstroke's  _ dick?"  _ He snaps. It had made sense at the time. Kent's thumb digs in as the suit powers down, Slade almost surprised when it hurts like a bitch, the muscle of his thigh trembling involuntarily. Pressure point.

"You sure there's nothing off the table?" Clark asks, voice a little lighter. Some of the heat has died, nervousness settled into little Clark J. Kent's mind. 

"Don't chicken out now." Slade says, a breathless laugh. "It was just getting good." Kent nudges his arm up, that little extra inch that turns it from pain to a tap-out. If Slade were the kind to tap-out, that is. 

"Giving you an out." 

"Don't need it." 

Clark unbending his arm hurts almost as much as having it jacked up, the nerves struggling to catch up. He's fast, but not Clark fast. The bed creaks again when he's rearranged like a ragdoll, suddenly face-up, cold air on every inch of his skin. The suit's gone, discarded to the floor, and all that's left is a pair of black boxers, Slade's cock hard and begging for attention. 

"Neat." He murmurs, flicking his eyes over Clark's own boxers, not quite filled out yet. What he can see is a dark spot in the fabric, the wide outline of the other man's cock, easily a match for Slade's own. Anticipation grows in his muscles, ready and waiting. "Bet you use that on all the ladies." 

Clark's eyes roll hard. "Shut up, Slade." 

"Make me," he grins, and fully enjoys the slap he receives for it, enough to make his teeth ache. Another follows, jerking his head to the side, this one lingering, Clark's palm splayed across his cheek like a lover might. His thumb hooks into Slade's mouth, pulling until it aches, and Slade lets him. 

It's a test if he ever saw one. Don't bite the hand that feeds you, all that. He can be good. He can play along. 

Clark's eyes are cold when he looks down at him, not careful at all when he rises up and sets his weight against Slade's jaw. Slade grits his teeth until they ache, and holds still for it, anticipating the next hit that comes. Clark drives it home, really lets it soak into his nerves, holding Slade's gaze. 

"You're lucky I don't gag you," he murmurs, his thumb sliding free of Slade's mouth. "Muzzle you." He wipes the saliva down his throat, and presses his thumb into the dip of his collarbones. "Maybe another time." He shifts, rising off Slade's hips. Leans down close, Slade dimly realising that's because he's floating, a casual display of raw power. He swallows hard, and knows what's happening before Clark's even finished pressing their mouths together. 

At first, it's slow. Gentle, almost. Clark's mouth is warm, his lips a little dry, tasting like coffee and toothpaste. He kisses considerately, lets Slade work into his mouth, mapping out the soft underside of his palate, the slide of his tongue. Clark kisses back in kind, his hands gentle when they settle on Slade's shoulders, barely holding him down. 

Such a gentle touch for a man like Superman. His hands are violence incarnate, could rip Slade into ribbons without a thought. His thumb brushes Slade's collarbone, tracing a mindless pattern there, one wrong move and it would be  _ shattered—  _

The first hint of teeth is sharp, sinking into his bottom lip like a knife through butter. Slade groans, arching up, unexpectedly cut off by Clark's broad hands sliding along to his jugular. He grips tight, pressure in all the right spots, and doesn't let go even when Slade can't bring in another breath. 

Slade's head swims a little, processing as hard as he can the new reality he's found himself in; one where pain is new and layered, a three-dimensional experience, and Superman's touch is both careful and momentous. He kisses back hungrily, bites down on Clark's soft mouth and earns himself a quiet laugh, the hands loosening. 

He tugs on his hair to pull Clark in close, tries to say with his mouth and his hands and the roll of his hips how badly he wants. After that, there's no more gentle. Clark's kisses are all teeth, his hands selfish and everywhere at once. Slade is  _ moved _ , no questions asked before he's arranged how Clark wants, and he finds he doesn't mind that as much as he thought he would. The hand around his neck squeezes, matched by the one that's bending his knee towards his chest, allowing Clark to press the hard edge of his cock to Slade's through layers of fabric. 

"Excited?" He mumbles, in between Clark mapping out the inside of his mouth and choking him. He's sure he's turned at least a little red by now, an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. Not quite starved for oxygen, not yet. But he  _ could _ , is the thing, a thought that sparks like electricity down his spine. 

Each touch is well thought out and controlled. Leashed in tightly. What he'd give to make Clark lose his hold on that leash entirely, have him touch without care, have him  _ take, _ and take it  _ roughly. _ Slade bites again, worrying the soft lip between his teeth. He's sturdy, but he'd never survive that, and so Slade settles for the next best thing. 

Clark answers with a roll of his hips that's both powerful and reigned in, the mattress dipping. It hurts— if  _ hurt _ could cover it, Slade gasping at the sudden crushing weight between his thighs, his first real taste of what lurks under Clark's soft, sun-tanned skin. 

The dig of Slade's fingers into Clark's biceps are nothing, a blip on the radar compared to the crush of Clark's own touch. His knuckles ache, turned bone white, and there's no fighting the next bite that comes; a harsh thing in the junction of his neck, muscle spasming. When Clark pulls back, there's blood, and a bruise quickly forming on Slade. 

He groans, the noise cut off again by Clark's skillful hand. He bucks his hips up, meeting a wall of muscle that doesn't budge, and fuck it feels  _ good _ , a little friction to his stinging skin. 

"You were saying?" He asks, voice gone low and level. There's no red to his irises, no fury boiling beneath the surface. Just control, steady and sure. And Slade's along for the ride, apparently. 

He bucks again, earns himself another agonising roll of hips. Clark lets slip a noise of his own, just a slightly louder puff of breath, and Slade knows he's got him. Knows he's wrapped up in this just as much as Slade is. He kisses back with intensity, wraps his arm over Clark's shoulder and digs in, pulling him close. 

"Wait," Clark mumbles, doesn't listen to himself and keeps kissing, biting, clashes his teeth against Slade's painfully. "Lube." Brackets him in against the bed until everything feels like Clark and hot, smooth skin. 

"Don't need it." He growls. Rakes his nails over Clark's spine, distracting him for a moment.

"You like your insides on the inside?" Clark throws back, that glorious hand at Slade's throat disappearing to fumble around in the nightstand. How courteous.

Slade bucks hard, digs his hands into Clark's hair, surprised at the softness there. Feels like human hair, silky between his fingers. He tugs, hard, Clark grunting. Slade pants against his throat and tries to leave bites of his own, as useless as that is, just to keep himself busy. If he stops, he'll consider how fucking  _ crazy _ he is, goading a walking  _ god _ into fucking him blind. 

He sucks on warm skin, senses zeroed into the taste of salt and soap and the missing  _ human _ in all of that. Clark tastes like nothing, beyond the sweat and the citrus soap, the aftershave at his jaw. He must have found the lubricant, because he bares down again, nearly fucking folds Slade in half, both knees this time pressed to his chest. 

He slaps him again for good measure, when Slade glares.

Clark cages him in, pins him down and keeps him where he's wanted, and there's nothing Slade can do against that immutable fact. No amount of training, no amount of enhancements, there is  _ nothing _ Slade can do, except let it happen, and  _ fuck _ does it make his cock ache fiercely. 

Clark breathes heavy against Slade's crown, damp breath ruffling over his forehead. Pops the cap on a little clear bottle and drizzles only enough to slick up two fingers. He's a little proud, he'd kind of expected the princess treatment. Seemed like the kind of guy.

Clark gives him no such thing. He tears through the boxers like wet tissue, shoves his own down to his thighs and grinds their cocks together; Clark's cock burning hot in the crease of his hips, heavy and thick. Slade curses, eyes screwed shut at the sudden thought of what it'll be like. Rough. Painful. Intrusive and just what he fucking needs, scratching the itch he's got. 

Clark pries Slade's hands from his back, presses them to the undersides of his own knees. "Hold it." He growls, voice turned to gravel, doesn't even look Slade's way. Slade does as he's told, and welcomes the hand that closes around his throat again in warning. 

The first finger is forceful, thick and uninvited. It makes itself known with a burn, stretching Slade as though there's no lubricant at all. It feels dry, dragging against his insides. Clark takes no time in adding a second finger, growling again when there's resistance. Slade jerks involuntarily. Every instinct says it's  _ wrong _ , says its  _ hurts _ and Slade should fight. 

It would be useless. Slade digs his nails into his own skin until he feels it break. Holds on and breathes raggedly as the burn spreads, a hot heat in his gut, nausea in his stomach. 

Clark spreads his fingers, only twice, clawing an animal noise out of Slade. The third finger brings a sting to his eye. 

" _ Fuck _ ," Slade hisses, snarls when the hand around his throat pins him down entirely. Feels like his windpipes about to go through his neck, feels like he can't  _ breathe _ , let alone swallow the saliva in his mouth. He fights down the fear at that, grips his thighs, every muscle coiled tightly. If he could, he'd fight. Fuck would he fight. 

Clark digs his thumb and index finger into Slade's throat, makes it  _ real _ , makes Slade's lungs light on fire so suddenly that he doesn't even notice the fingers slipping free. He gargles a noise, not even close to human-like, grits his teeth and some far-away part of him notes how his dick  _ aches _ , begs to be touched, blood thick and hot in his veins. 

He feels animal. Feral. Bares his teeth and snarls. Holds on for a lack of any other options against the immovable object above him, Clark methodical in his touches and his stretches, always on the right side of painful.

The hand eases up. Slade chokes on air, sucks it in through his teeth and swallows down all the saliva, all of it shocked right back out of him at the press of Clark's cock to his hole.  _ Big _ is the first thought, followed quickly by  _ yes _ , and then Slade can't think beyond the onslaught of pain and excitement, the burn of entry with the churning in his stomach, the shock of pleasure to his over-sensitive cock when Clark grips him roughly. 

He feels fucking dizzy with it. Blinks his eyes open, not quite sure when he closed them, and watches every inch of Clark sink into him. He makes it look effortless. It isn't, but no amount of struggling and tightening is going to stop Clark from filling him up, taking his time. It rips a shout out of Slade's abused chest, hoarse. Effortless again when Clark drags him closer by his hips, fingernails dug in and drawing blood. 

Slade groans, his throat jagged and raw. Feels every slow, thick inch sink into him, pinned down and agonised. Just  _ thinking _ is hard, when Clark sinks down along too, settles the heavy barrel of his chest over Slade's and bites into his mouth again. 

Tastes like copper and toothpaste. Tastes like  _ Slade. _ He's not gentle when he pulls out, a sickening drag inside of Slade, sparking straight to his cock. The hand around him squeezes, jerks him off in disorganized movements, never quite enough to just  _ come already. _

The thrust back in is worse. Clark laughs lowly into his mouth, swallowing whatever whine makes its way out.  _ Full _ doesn't describe it, full is pitiful compared to what Slade feels. There's no room to think, to breathe, to  _ move _ . He trembles in Clark's grip, muscles over-worked already, hair sweat damp. 

He makes to let go of his thighs, wrap them around Clark's tight hips and force him on. There's a strong hand over his before he can even think of it, forcing him back into position, vulnerable and open. 

It's fucking glorious. 

He sets a punishing pace, doesn't give Slade time to catch up. Each roll of Clark's hips is forceful, just a fraction of what he could do, and they both hear it when a wooden slat snaps, the mattress dipping. 

Feels like the entire world fucking tilts on its axis, but no, that's just Slade. Clark's hand is strong on the back of his neck, his palm damp, the other braced at his back as he hikes Slade up and onto his hips. Spears him on his cock, so damn  _ deep _ , and not even for a second does he stop jackhammering. 

"Fuck," he groans, slurred. Clark's hand snakes into his hair to pull him back, baring his bruised throat. Sharp, inhuman teeth sink in again, leaving lovebites aggressively. By the end of this, he'll be more marked up than a horny teenager on prom night. 

He almost laughs, and then Slade is yanked  _ down _ , Clark's hips rolling into his with terrifying precision to batter his prostate. Every thought melts out of his head, reduced to instinct. He holds on with trembling limbs, presses his overheated mouth to Clark's and marvels at how easily he's been manhandled into this. 

Rough fingers dig into his ass, leaving only long enough to land a stinging slap there. Some part of him hopes it'll mark, that he'll have handprints all over him by the end of this. Clark sucks on his shoulder, hard, presses their bodies as close as they possibly can be, bucks harder and faster than Slade can follow. 

He grips back just as hard, digs his nails in and sinks his teeth into Clark's shoulder. Groans, long and drawn out, when he's moved up, right to the very tip of Clark's cock, the wide head stretching him open. Clark drops him, lets Slade sink down at gravity's own pace, rinse and fucking repeat until he's shaking, until he's too out of it to even lift his head and take a shuddering breath. 

There's the sound of plaster cracking, and a deep, animal noise from Clark's chest, every muscle drawn tight and deathly still save for the pulsing of his cock as he spills into Slade. Holds him tight enough that Slade's hips ache, immobilised in every way that counts. One wrong move, and he'd probably have been dead, Clark's hand around his throat and spasming shut or one sharp, uncontrolled thrust, all the ways this could have gone wrong if Clark was any less in control. 

The thought drives Slade over the edge, untouched and frenetic, spilling come over Clark's heaving abdomen. Slade clings harder than he thought possible, clenching down on the thick cock inside of him. 

"Jesus," Clark whispers, the word strained. More plaster spills from the wall he's been gripping, his other hand settling on Slade's sore thigh. "Fuck." 

His breathing is too heavy to reply or protest when Clark moves, taking disjointed steps back over to the bed. Each movement drives his cock a little more in, still hard, still pressed to Slade's abused prostate, driven home  _ hard. _

The bed is unreasonably uncomfortable, compared to Clark's strong grip holding him up. Not many who can do that, and still fuck the daylights out of him. Slade cracks an eye open, blinking past the haze of pain and adrenaline, past the shattering orgasm he's just had. 

"You said it." He puffs, dragging his mouth over Clark's shoulder to stare him vaguely in the eye. After a second, Clark leans back, reaches between them and pulls out, the movement oddly gentle. Slade still gasps despite that, his insides rubbed raw and sensitive. He clenches down involuntarily, every nerve overstimulated and on fire.

"That was good." He comments lightly. Sweat's matted his hair down, slicked his skin, and Slade wants nothing more than to lean in and taste that odd,  _ nothing _ taste again. 

"Good?" Slade huffs. The bed shakes a little when Clark unceremoniously flops down beside him, cock still half-hard and imposing against his hip. "Fuck you, that was—" Slade waves a trembling arm. "Pretty sure you just put me out of commission for a month."

Clark laughs, breathless. "If that's all it took, I'd have done this ages ago." 

"Don't get fucking ideas." 

Clark laughs again, a low and strangely attractive sound. Not that often Slade's sex life ends in laughter. Most often someone puts their pants back on, limps their way to the nearest bar. 

It's usually Slade. 

"Fuck," Clark murmurs. "My wall." 

"At least the fish are okay." He replies. He makes to scrub at his face, wipe off some of the drying blood or the smeared saliva, and finds instead that his hand is shaking. His arms feel tender, aching like they haven't in years. "I'll cover it." 

Clark shifts. Slade turns his head, finding the other man closer than he'd thought. His senses feel dulled, all the fuses blown. Overstimulation. Clark meets his gaze, the lines around his eyes tight. He looks tired, and like he's gone ten rounds with Luthor, the hair on his chest matted and his skin catching the lamplight with sweat. 

He looks like he could fall asleep any minute, each blink slow and drowsy. Slade feels the same. 

"Honest question," Slade murmurs, when it becomes clear Clark's not going to say anything else, the two of them sinking into comfortable and dazed silence. 

Clark hums. 

Slade shifts, stretching both legs out, taking up more than half the bed. "Why do you want the light on for the fish?" 

"Oh." Clark mumbles. He turns, shifting onto his side, much the way he did when he was snoring into a pillow. It had been cute then. Still kind of is. "I don't like the thought of the tank light going out. Leave it on just in case." 

"They're fish." Slade replies, eyes turning to slits. "They'll survive." 

Clark shrugs a large shoulder. "Makes me feel better, if I have to go. Don't know when I'll be back." 

Not quite sure what to say to that other than simply repeating that they're fucking fish, Slade grunts and lets his eye slip shut. "You gonna have a big moral dilemma over this?" 

"Are you?" Clark asks back. He sounds genuinely interested.  _ Cute. _ Slade snorts. Superman's cock is good, but not quite that good. 

"Actually, I've got to go." He murmurs. "Work." 

"I don't want to know, Slade." Clark says, only a little tense now. It's the most he can ask for, he supposes. Slade nods, shooting him a crooked smile. 

There isn't, actually, a contract. But there's work piling up all the time. And the thought of letting exhaustion take him over here, in Clark's bed with the man himself napping beside him — its too much. Fucking is one thing. 

Slade's legs don't answer the call, at first. He curls his toes, the muscle of his calves jumping. "You ever give up on this whole hero thing," he murmurs, arms protesting when he pushes himself up, "give me a call. You pack a punch." 

Clark laughs again, quietly at first and then rising. "Get your stuff and go, Slade." He says, reaching out with gentle hands to push his shoulder. 

Something hits him in the side after, right on a blossoming scratch. Slade blinks down, finding his mask. "Thanks." He pulls it on first, and  _ doesn't  _ limp as he picks up the rest of his suit. The boxer's are done for, so he roots around until he finds a clean pair of Clark's, ignoring the protests. 

With everything pulled on, he feels a little steadier on his feet. The weight of the mask is enough to sharpen his senses again, get him back to where he needs to be. Deathstroke. 

Clark follows without setting foot on the ground when he goes back for his weapons, silent as Slade straps each knife and firearm back into place. His underwear is back on, looking almost the same as when he stumbled out of bed. 

Unchanged, save for the sweat, and the faint relaxed edges to his face that only a good orgasm can give. He smiles slightly, tilting his head when Slade pops the window. 

"Stay out of Metropolis." 

"Yeah, yeah." Slade waves a hand, feeling the familiar ache there. Everywhere, really. His thighs burn when he climbs out, his throat throbbing. "See you around." 

* * *

In the morning, Slade turns down work for the week. Every muscle feels loose and spent, in possibly the best way.

Just before rolling back over for another few hours of unconsciousness, he puts the cost of repairing Clark's apartment onto Luthor's tab.

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to who prompted it! Looking forward to maybe writing more for these two, if I get the chance.


End file.
